


the future surprises us

by Sixthlight



Series: stranger than you could imagine [2]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Bisexual Character, Future Fic, M/M, Pining, alternate POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 11:36:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8054779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixthlight/pseuds/Sixthlight
Summary: I’m old enough and smart enough to know that it happens, sometimes, you catch yourself checking out somebody you work with or spend time with. It doesn’t mean anything more than a passing thought. [Companion piece to stranger than you could imagine.]





	the future surprises us

**Author's Note:**

> The totally unnecessary version of _stranger than you could imagine_ from Peter’s point of view, finally posted because THE HANGING TREE IS UPON US and I gotta get all my soon-to-be-non-canon fic up first or I'll never get around to it. Title taken from the same quote as the original story.

The first time I ever really suspected that Nightingale might tend towards the higher end of the Kinsey scale was when I asked for time off to go to Dominic and Victor’s wedding. Okay, it wasn’t the _first_ first time – that had been the first time I’d laid eyes on him – but I’d been wrong about why he’d been watching me and I know better than to make assumptions. Honestly, after that it hadn’t been something I’d thought about much, if at all. He was my boss, after all. What he got up to on his own time, if he got up to anything, wasn’t my business. There was the possibility of Molly, and regardless of Beverley’s dismissal I had wondered, but as time went on it seemed less and less plausible. And I wouldn’t have wanted to know if it _was_ plausible, anyway. But – no, I didn’t buy it.

He didn’t do anything stupid, when I asked for the time off, either. But by then I’d been living in the same house as him for two years and I caught the way he froze when I said “Dom and Victor”, a slight but unmistakable hesitation. He denied it bothered him, of course, and I believed him, because that sort of casual bigotry isn’t how Nightingale operates; but there was a certain tense set of lines around his eyes that said _something_ bothered him.

I knew very well what sort of environment he must have grown up in, so the idea that he was repressing something did spring to mind. But it’s not the sort of thing you can really ask, is it? Not of anybody, not politely. Certainly not of your superior officer. And – _still_ not my business.

I did ask Walid, once. After all, he’d known Nightingale the longest of any of us, except for maybe Postmartin. I will state upfront that I know I shouldn’t have, but it wasn’t my fault; it was the morphine. I won’t get into the details, but suffice it to say I’d managed to put myself in the hospital in a way serious enough to require high-octane pain relief.

“I couldn’t say,” was all Walid said. “He’s very private, as doubtless you’ve noticed. Not much for talking about his personal life, assuming he’s got one.”

“I’m not trying to gossip,” I said, in that earnest and slightly slurred way people do when they’re on a nice legal medical high. Or so I think; my memory of the conversation is far from perfect.

“I didn’t think you were,” Walid reassured me. “But I think that’s him coming down the hall to check we’ve patched you up now, so maybe remember it’s not something you want to ask _him.”_

“I’m on _drugs_ , I’m not an _idiot_ ,” I think I said. But I don’t remember anything after that, so who knows; it’s not like Nightingale would have told me if I had said anything to him. He’s good that way.  

*

Then, of all the things, I swear I caught him checking me out. That was an actual, genuine shock. We’d had one of those really, really long weeks – the kind where you get two hours’ sleep here and three there and otherwise subsist on black coffee and desperation – and when I woke up on Sunday morning, I hadn’t _meant_ to show up for breakfast in my pyjamas. (Plain blue pyjama bottoms my Mum had given me last Christmas and a KEEP CALM AND DON’T BLINK t-shirt I’d never quite remembered to give back to Beverley, in case you’re wondering – in my defence, these count as actual clothes in many contexts.) I sloped down the back stairs to the kitchen in hopes that a cup of coffee would enable me to stumble through showering and dressing, but Molly had put out her usual spread regardless of the time we’d gotten back last night, and I found myself drawn inexorably into the breakfast room by the smell. By the time I was standing in front of the buffet it seemed pointless to avoid eating, and Nightingale wasn’t there yet anyway.

Then he showed up when I was halfway through my third piece of toast and my second cup of coffee, and of course his only concession to it being Sunday morning was wearing a _two-_ piece suit, that and no tie, so I felt like I’d shown up in my actual underwear. The carpet rubbed scratchily against my bare feet.

“I’m surprised you’re up,” he said.

“Have to be,” I replied after a second. Even sleep deprivation wasn’t going to get me to talk with my mouth full in front of Nightingale. “I still have to write up my statement. Stephanopoulos wants it by the end of the day today, and she’s annoyed enough with me this week as it is.” Although it had to be said that it wasn’t _me_ who’d caused arguably minor damage to King’s Cross, it was our suspect-turned-arrestee, and I did hope she remembered that.

“I do see,” was all Nightingale said, and then he let me get on with scarfing down food and coffee in equal quantities in silence, which is a beautiful thing in somebody you have to live with. On the other hand, he couldn’t have gotten more than four hours of sleep in either, so it might just have been a lack of energy.

I’m going to blame the way his glance flickered over me when I stood up on the sleep deprivation, too, because I was hardly at my best – as if he’d have given me the once-over if I was. It wasn’t obvious, just…the way your eyes drift over somebody you’re looking at, not the professional policeman’s gaze or even the bored stranger’s; the other kind of assessing look. By the time he’d have made it up to my face I’d tipped my head back to drain the dregs of my coffee; maybe I saved us both some embarrassment, and maybe I didn’t, but I don’t know because I just mumbled something about getting on with it and left.

It was so surprising that I wondered afterwards if I’d imagined it, or if he’d been looking at something else entirely, like – the table? The wall behind me? I mean, this was _Nightingale_. I’d never caught him looking at _anyone_ like he was checking them out – okay, I’d thought, that first time I’d met him – but I’d been wrong, hadn’t I? He’d never evinced the slightest bit of attention like that in _my_ direction, or anybody’s that I’d seen. I’d imagined it.

But it did happen again, once or twice over the next few months, fleeting glances that I saw out of the corner of my eye. Nothing that was the slightest bit inappropriate or anything like that. I was just aware, now, that he was aware of me as…as someone he could find attractive, on occasion, and I had no idea what to do with that piece of information.

What _was_ there to do, after all? I’m old enough and smart enough to know that it happens, sometimes, you catch yourself checking out somebody you work with or spend time with, a longer glance than you mean to give. It doesn’t mean anything more than a passing thought. I couldn’t even say for sure it was the _first_ time he’d done it, because I remembered perfectly well that I’d thought he was trying to pick me up the night I met him, only he wasn’t and I’d never thought it again because – why would I? Until now.

That having come to mind, not two weeks later he showed up one evening when we had to go out and deal with a minor hellhound issue in Epping Forest – don’t ask – wearing the same grey pinstripe he’d been wearing that night, which surprised me because his working suit was normally the tweed. It was an especially good look on him, that one, not that Nightingale ever seemed to dress to impress anybody in particular, or I had particular opinions on how he looked. And it wouldn’t have mattered at all if I hadn’t opened my big mouth about it.

“Expecting it’ll go well?” I said while we were en route.

“I’m not anticipating any serious trouble, although let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he replied. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re not dressed for it to go badly.” Because he wasn’t. _I’d_ worn my steel-toed Doc Martens, because I know how this sort of thing tends to go for me. Nobody ever gives _me_ time to fix my cufflinks, if I’d worn any. Or owned any.

“What is it you think I’m dressed for?” he asked, lightly, almost teasing. I glanced at him, almost involuntarily, and for just a second it was like – I’m not sure what. No, okay, I know what. I _looked_ at him, and he looked back, a smooth sudden moment of being on the same wavelength, and that not one I’d ever expected to be on, not with _Nightingale_.

Just for a second.

“Um, nothing, forget I said anything,” I mumbled, and he looked away. Then almost as quickly his expression smoothed over, and he changed the topic back to the job at hand.

The thing is, though. I never saw him wear that suit again. Not until after – but I’m getting ahead of myself. Now, Nightingale has been around a while, and good suits last nearly forever, and it’s not like the Folly is short on storage space, but he doesn’t have _that_ many and it should have shown up in rotation again at some point. Conclusion: he was avoiding wearing it. Because he had, and I’d looked at him, and – I’d looked at him.

I wasn’t even sure _why_.

*

Otherwise, Nightingale continued to be his usual self, and if I’d been smarter I would have left it there. Because I suspected that if he _was_ into blokes, it was wrapped up under a good deal of repression. After all, we were friends, of a sort, we were capable of acknowledging and leaving aside any stupid momentary attraction. If he was going to put it aside so completely, I should do the same. But Nightingale didn’t just put it aside, he buried it six feet deep, except in those unexpected flashes. And then there was the way he tensed up when Seawoll made a casual crude joke at his expense, or when someone thought we were a couple and not working together – that happened, and more the closer we looked in age. I could have just put it down to his general reluctance to talk about his personal life, but bits and pieces of that had slipped out over the years, about his family, his friends, who he’d been before. Before Ettersberg. Or maybe he just wasn’t interested in _any_ of it, but – no.

It wouldn’t be that surprising if he kept it all locked up, really, given when he’d been born and when he’d grown up. Nightingale had always been good, as these things go, at not letting whatever various pieces of nastiness he must have picked up in the early twentieth century about, well, everyone who wasn’t him, spill out into how he treated people. But these things stick with you.

Not that it _mattered_ , not to me, and that second in the Jag had been exactly that – a weird second. Like that weird dream I’d had once about Lady Ty. ( _Really_ , don’t ask; I don’t know what my subconscious was up to that night.) I didn’t imagine for a moment it would affect our working relationship, because it hadn’t these last few years, and all that besides - I’d never really been into guys. It’s one thing when you’re fifteen and just about any human of your own age starts to seem like a good prospect, but it was women who caught my attention as an adult and that was fine. What would that even be like, trying to make it with Nightingale? He was so tightly wrapped-up. And I sincerely doubted it was in that stereotypical romance novel way where he just needed the right person to de-repress him. It was just who he was. Probably because of boarding school. So it’d probably be…he’d probably be all quiet, and focused, like he got when he was doing serious magic, or…

Which was when the memory of him in that grey suit came back, full force, and my treacherous brain gave me the full technicolour image of what that _would_ be like, to be the subject of Nightingale’s focus that way, even though I didn’t have the first thing to go on, really, but it would – and maybe if – I -

My mouth went a little dry, and I thought, oh. Oh _fuck_.

I made sure to hit the gym before bed that night, so I was properly tired. I didn’t need my subconscious getting any more ideas.

*

The trouble was, now the question had come up, even if only in the confines of my own head, I wanted an answer. Did I – I mean, could I? Was this actual attraction, or a curious response to the interest I thought I’d seen from _him_ , or just a very early midlife crisis? And as it happens, my major personality flaw is that when I think of questions, I want answers to them. I’m not good at letting things go. I even considered calling up Dom and asking him how he’d known he wanted to – how he’d known, but that wouldn’t wash because he’d want to know _why_ I wanted to know. I didn’t want to have to invent some guy I was interested in, and telling the truth was clearly not an option. Furthermore, Dom had never been interested in anything _but_ blokes, as far as I knew, and that wasn’t the situation I found myself in. I considered asking Beverley, too, because she’d hear me out and not pass judgement, but she’d be even nosier than Dom was and much more likely to figure out the truth.

All this was well after she and I were done, and if I wanted to get a practical rather than a theoretical answer – well, I wasn’t much interested in going out and hitting a gay bar or two by way of experiment. That was not a complication I needed in my life. Which meant the whole thing was entirely theoretical – and possibly non-existent. Then again, I couldn’t very well experiment on Nightingale, either, had I been stupid enough to make the attempt; that wasn’t fair _or_ smart. So really, I just needed to let it go. Get out. Meet somebody. Somebody female, for preference, just to leave this whole…thing…behind me. Heterosexuality had served me perfectly well for the first thirty-odd years of my life, after all.

*

Then Nightingale fell asleep in the library – not normal for him, but it had been a _long_ week. It looked so ridiculous, him with his head on a pile of books, that I was tempted to take a picture for posterity. But that would have been mean and besides I’ve killed enough spare mobiles in the Folly without getting into the habit of turning on my actual phone. So instead I put a hand on his shoulder, to shake him awake – I really did need to know if he’d found anything – and was struck by a sudden, stupid urge, as powerful as strong _vestigia_. Looking at him there, the lines of his face smoothed out by sleep, I wanted to run my hand through his hair, lean down and –

Like I said; almost like _vestigia_. But I know my own daft ideas when I have them. And a good thing too, because it turned out he wasn’t asleep, or at least only dozing. A normal person would have just opened their eyes, but I found out when he grasped my hand suddenly, whip-fast; I supposed I had been standing there longer than…longer than I really should have been.

He lifted my hand away, and he did open his eyes and sit up, then, but there was this second when he still had a hold of my hand, thumb pressing into the palm so that my fingers started to close around it in reflex, and I was looking down at the top of his head just then, so I don’t know what his expression said. But it felt like a sting, when he let go.

It was stupid and Victorian and I had no idea what – so I brushed past it, sat down and asked what he’d found, and tried to keep my mind on the case. I wished I’d taken the seat opposite him instead of the seat beside him, though, because our legs and shoulders were very nearly brushing and there was an electric bite of tension to it that there just shouldn’t have been when we were both dead tired and mired in a case that had racked up a bodycount of two already. I thought it might just be me, but Nightingale kept his gaze fixed on the books the whole time. Not just me. But then, he didn’t move away, either. Because there wasn’t any reason for him to, was there, we were just doing research in the library, it was just – nothing had happened.

Three weeks later, when I’d almost forgotten or chalked it up firmly to sleep deprivation – it occurred that this whole thing could be resolved by both of us never missing a good night’s sleep, like that was going to happen in our jobs – I had a dream. Not a repeat of the old, old dream, the one with Beverley and Lesley; one of those dreams where you re-live something that happened and then it starts to go differently. I was in the library again, only this time I didn’t put my hand on Nightingale’s shoulder, I gave in to that stupid impulse and smoothed his hair away from his face, cupped his cheek. He opened his eyes and grabbed my hand, but he didn’t let go. Instead he pulled me down and – the rest is sort of hazy, actually, in the way of dreams, but I woke up hard as a rock and had to recite Greek verb tables in my head until the urge to, well, the urge receded, because I have standards. And that seemed like crossing some sort of line I wasn’t sure I wanted to cross, even if it was only in my head. 

Which helped me precisely not at all, because when I came down to breakfast he looked up and smiled and said hello, then looked down at the newspaper again, and it was a realization like a punch to the stomach; if he ever – if he ever did suggest – if that _was_ something he wanted – I’d say yes. Because like I said: _wanting to know_ has always been my problem, and I wanted to know whether that electric feeling when he’d held my hand for a second, the surge of something I had to name now as desire, whether that was going to feel as good as I thought it would.  I wanted to know what that could be. I wasn’t – brave enough, or stupid enough, whichever it was, to make a move.

But if. Then yes.

Fortunately the Telegraph editorial must have been particularly enthralling that day, because I stood there processing this for so long Molly pointedly elbowed me aside to put down the teapot, but he didn’t notice. I’m not sure what I would have said if he’d asked what was wrong. I’m not sure what my expression was. But I know I’m not that great a liar, when it comes down to it.

*

My own personal journey of discovery aside, I knew without question that all this was an entirely pointless piece of speculation, because _if_ wasn’t going to happen. There might be something that would drive him to cross that particular personal Rubicon, but it wasn’t anything I could think of, and it wasn’t like any sort of crisis was going to do it either. In a crisis, we’d both be _way_ too busy to worry about things like that. And it wasn’t as if – there wasn’t anything wrong with what we were now, if you could say we were anything in particular. I just wondered what it would be like, was all. And I thought he might wonder, too. From time to time.

I really, _really_ needed to get laid. And _not_ with my boss, even if “teacher” had recently gone out of that equation. Speculation was exactly the right word: I was building castles in the air, I didn’t really know the first thing about what he wanted or why he didn’t seem to have relationships or _any_ of it, I was probably projecting my own – whatever, onto him. I had to let it go before I screwed everything up.

Then I met Nightingale in the atrium, coming home from a celebratory night at the pub, and I thought, what if I just…what if I just went for it? I’d known him nearly a decade, and I was willing to bet that if I was wrong, it wasn’t an irretrievable screw-up. People do stupid things after a couple of drinks. All sorts of stupid things. It’s the source of a really high percentage of crime. I could blame it on that, and –

I trusted him to not let me screw it up _that_ badly, is the thing, and you’ve probably never heard a stupider excuse for kissing someone but in my defence, I was about to pretend to be a little drunk.

I wanted to know. It’s always been my problem.

I put my hand on his arm and said something cringingly stupid, but he didn’t pull away, not even when I leaned in. Although for a stomach-dropping second he just stood there; and I thought, oh no, it’s just shock, I _did_ get it wrong –

– until Nightingale grabbed the front of my coat and reeled me in closer, and no, that was a definite registering of interest in proceedings, what you might even call enthusiasm. I’d thought it would be weirder, honestly, and the fact that it was late in the day, not to mention the lack of height difference, didn’t leave me any room to pretend I hadn’t just laid one on another bloke. But that was the details, not the substance. When we broke apart for a breather, the way my brain was gibbering _yes, let’s do this some more_ ; that was very familiar.

As stupid experiments go, it was a successful one. I wanted, I wanted – I wanted to see where this went.

I wanted him.

“I’m for bed, too,” I said, in an echo of the last thing he’d said to me. “If you want.” Not my smoothest line, but he hadn’t let me move away more than an inch; I thought the odds weren’t bad. My heartbeat was so loud it seemed like he must be able to hear it, too.

Nightingale said “But you don’t,” and I’d anticipated that sort of comment, because – not an unfair observation.

“Not usually, that’s fair,” I said. “But I want to. With you.”

And there it was, out in the open; a bit like the feeling of stepping off Skygarden, freefalling.

“I can’t do that to you,” he said, and I had to pull back at that to take in his expression, because that – that was a bit like the feeling of the ground rushing up to meet me.

“Wait, what?” He looked torn, really torn, and I didn’t want to – this wasn’t meant to make him look like that, this was meant to be something _good_ , something we both wanted.

Wanting things doesn’t mean you get to have them, though, and I’d been prepared for rejection in a variety of forms. But this…I couldn’t quite work it out. The way he put it was a little bit offensive, to start with, because consensual sexual activity with other adults isn’t anyone doing anything _to_ me, not unless that’s what we’re both interested in.

“Look,” I said, “I was ready for ‘this is totally inappropriate’, or ‘not on the first date’, or ‘go to bed, Peter, you’re drunk’ – which I’m not, so we’re clear – but…that doesn’t sound like any of those.”

His smile was soft and a little bitter, and he still had his fingers wound tight in my coat, so we weren’t more than a few inches apart; it was all very confusing. “The first is true enough. And you can’t blame me for suspecting the last.”

I couldn’t argue about the inappropriateness of the whole thing. Considering. Although I was feeling _exceptionally_ sober now, and I hadn’t even been tipsy to start with. I’d trusted him to not let me screw up, and this – this was him doing that.

“I wasn’t asking you to do anything  _to_ me,” I tried, because sometimes I’m not good at letting things go. “I was asking if - if you wanted to do something  _with_  me.”

I waited for him to just say it, all the reasons this was a bad idea. But he looked at me, gaze flickering down to my mouth and back up, and he didn’t say anything, and he didn’t let go either, and I was _this_ close to just kissing him again, like that constituted an actual argument, I felt myself start to lean in – and then he let go.

Right. Right, we weren’t doing this. I stuck my hands in my pockets, and looked at the floor like it was going to give me answers. “I – let’s pretend I  _was_  drunker than I should’ve been, shall we? And maybe I can look you in the eye, in the morning.”

He still said nothing. And he kept saying nothing, while I backed up a step or two and then turned to go up the stairs to my room and contemplate just how badly I’d fucked up after all. I stopped on the first landing and looked back; he’d sat down on the first step and had his head in his hands. I almost went back. I hadn’t meant to –

But it didn’t really matter, did it, what I had or hadn’t meant to do, and if he had anything else to say to me he would have said it. So I went to my room, pulling my coat off as I went, and sat on the bed, and put _my_ head in my hands.

I should’ve known better. Nightingale’s self-control is absolute; it didn’t matter if he fancied me or not, he wasn’t going to – if it was all buried as deep as I thought, as the things he’d said just now made it sound like, me cheerily suggesting like that wasn’t going to make any difference. I didn’t know why I’d thought it would have. What the _hell_ I’d thought I was doing.

I was interrupted in this helpful train of thought by a brisk _rat-a-tat_ on my door.

It was Nightingale, of course, and I was seriously tempted to ignore it and get back to the _not talking about it_ thing – but when you take risks you accept the consequences, and apparently mine had arrived already. I hoped he wasn’t angry. I hoped he wasn’t _disappointed_. Actually, I’d take angry over disappointed, any day. I hoped a little bit that he was just going to say “Changed my mind, can we get back to the kissing?” but even my imagination didn’t stretch quite that far.

I don’t know what was on my face when I opened the door, but he looked like – like someone steeling themselves to something. Oh, god, it _was_ going to be disappointed. Or worse. I opened my mouth to say – I don’t know what I would have said, but I think _I’m sorry_ would have started it – and then he reached out and laid a hand on my face, thumb across my mouth, as if to say _no, I’m not here to talk_.

It wasn’t quite as straightforward as just kissing me would have been, but it didn’t leave a lot of room for misinterpretation, and I felt my heart start to hammer faster again, as everything spun around and rearranged itself. I wanted to just grab him, but I thought he needed to – I’d done enough of that this evening – so I turned my head and pressed my lips against his palm. It was somehow more intimate than just kissing him on the mouth had been. But it seemed to be the right thing to do, anyway, because then he stepped inside the door and kissed me, properly, arm around my waist, like it was the most important thing he could be doing, and yeah. Yeah, I didn’t have any arguments with that.

We didn’t do a lot of talking, for the next while. We weren’t silent, not by a long shot, and I think I said some very stupid stuff about his suit, which took way too long to get off him – but none of it was anything that mattered. I was in a sort of hot, giddy haze of _this is happening_ , and Nightingale was _smiling_ at me, and the details are a bit blurry, honestly. It was like being a teenager all over again, knowing what you want and not knowing quite whether you’re doing it right, but both of you too impatient to stop. Though not much like in other regards, because we were both old enough to know what we were doing, or close enough on my part.

It was a sight, too, having Nightingale naked on my bed, and I saw him glance at the lamp like he was thinking about turning it off. But he didn’t, and when he saw I was looking at it too he said “I’d rather see you, if you don’t mind,” and I didn’t mind at all. I wanted to remember this properly.

I did have a stupid moment in the middle there where I nearly freaked out, suddenly thought, what _am_ I doing, since when is this – since when is this _me?_ But then I took him in hand and – I did mention we weren’t silent, right? Well, he certainly wasn’t. Quiet, yes, but he made a _noise_ , and I wanted to hear him make a lot more noises, I wanted to make some of my own, there wasn’t any room in all of that for stupid existential questions.

It wasn’t as good as I’d thought it could be, after all. I think it was better. It was real.

*

I was getting my breath back, after, enjoying the heavy boneless lassitude and trying very hard not to make any bad jokes about replication to confirm the results – because even _I_ could recognize what a terrible idea that was – when Nightingale said, abruptly, “I’m not very good at this.”

I didn’t laugh out loud, barely, because that was a blatant untruth. Although he probably hadn’t meant – well, of course he hadn’t.

“I think I beg to differ,” I said anyway, because for me not knowing what I was doing and him almost certainly having not gotten laid in however long we’d done pretty well. And I wasn’t above emphasizing that, because I _was_ interested in a repeat. Replication. Whatever.

“Thank you, but I meant – at feeling like this is something I’m allowed to do.”

And there were several ways to interpret that, weren’t there. I rolled over on my side to look at him, and picked the most obvious to discount immediately. “We’re not…we’re not talking about the work thing, are we.”

Nightingale shook his head, very slightly, like he didn’t want to say anything. I thought about what I was going to say. The second most obvious thing, then.

“I thought that might be what you…” I said. “But you don’t, you’re not. You’ve never had a problem with anyone else who’s - not straight. You, you _wanted_ this.”

His eyes softened, and I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I knew that wasn’t the right thing, not quite yet. I’m not a total idiot about this stuff, whatever certain people may tell you.

“I want this,” he said. “I have wanted this. But apart from – as you put it, the work thing – I just wasn’t brought up to think this was…something I was allowed to have. Or want. Or do. Or be  _happy_  doing.”

Oh. Well, then.

I had to think about what to say to that.

“You were happy, tonight,” I managed eventually, because it was true – I remembered the way he’d smiled at me. I gave in, and reached out, touched his cheek and left my thumb drift along his lower lip. “I think I saw you smile as much as I normally see you smile in a week. I liked that.”

I couldn’t believe I’d said something that inane, but it got me another smile, and a kiss pressed to my thumb, so I didn’t wish it back.

“I liked it too,” he responded. “And that’s why I’m telling you. So you don’t think it’s about you, or this, or not wanting, or anything of that nature. It’s just that some of the things you learn, when you’re young – they don’t go away. Even if you’d like them to.”

I thought about how long it had taken me to even recognise that I wanted this, that I _could_ want this; about how I didn’t have the first idea how I’d ever tell anybody about it, the ‘work thing’ aside; how I still had no idea what it meant for me, what I – no idea about anything, except this, right here. It’s the twenty-first century, of course, I had plenty of words I could use. But applying them to _myself_ felt foreign, still.

“Well,” I said. “You don’t need to tell me  _that_.”

*

I thought he’d go back to his own room, but he fell asleep right there in my bed. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen him sleep; there’d been a couple of times when we’d had to go somewhere for a case and there’d been one room at the inn or whatever, which hadn’t been a problem because we’re functional adults who do share a house even if it’s a very large one. So I knew what he looked like, sleeping.

But it was the first time he’d fallen asleep in the same bed as me, not to mention the lack of clothing. It was a bit cramped for space, I’m not going to lie, but I wasn’t complaining. Much. Too many endorphins floating around for that. My subconscious may or may not have re-enacted the highlights once I drifted off, but I couldn’t really blame it for that, if I’d wanted to assign blame.

Nightingale was still there when I woke up, looking at me, a faint smile on his face, and I hadn’t expected that – in point of fact I blurted out something to that effect, and got a pretty dry answer in return. But he reached out, when he said it, just the way he had the night before, only this time I was the one who kissed him. A bit gingerly, because there was a definite stubble issue going on for both of us, but all the same -

Is this something I am, now? I thought. Someone who wants to be with him? I was pretty sure neither of us really knew what we were doing. I mean – I still didn’t. And Nightingale had been thinking about this for – a long time – years maybe – and had still had to steel himself to come to my room, against the invisible weight of everything he’d been told about this, about himself. The potential for disaster was high, I wasn’t stupid.

But I looked at him, there in my bed, exactly where I wanted him to be, and I thought, is this someone I am, now?

And yeah. Okay. _Yes._


End file.
